


among the willows

by avapacifica



Category: Back to the Future (Movies)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adventure, Adventure & Romance, Alcohol, Card Games, Closeted Character, Cowboys & Cowgirls, Crimes & Criminals, Fire, Fluff, Gay Character, Getting Together, Guns, Happy Ending, Horses, Implied Sexual Content, Light Angst, M/M, My First Work in This Fandom, Newborn Children, On the Run, Prostitution, Rare Pairings, Secret Relationship, Time Travel, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:40:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25815943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avapacifica/pseuds/avapacifica
Summary: among the willows, meaning dodging the lawmarty gets stuck in the old west when the time machine doesn't get fast enough to send him back to the future. be gay do crime ensues.
Relationships: Marty McFly/Buford Tannen
Comments: 5
Kudos: 21





	among the willows

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first time posting anything this long, so let me know how i did on that front. i'm really proud of this one, i definitely want to make this a series. all the cowboy lingo makes me so happy. enjoy!

_ Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea,  _ Marty thinks, but the gun’s already up against his head. Perhaps if he had thought it a little sooner, Mad Dog wouldn’t be about to kill him, but with the Delorean wrecked, there’s no point dwelling on how the past could change. He’s gonna have to get out of this the old fashioned way, that is without the help of a time traveler with a doctorate. 

“This time I’m aiming where I know you won’t survive.” Buford snarls. “I thought you had plans to leave Eastwood.”

“And I thought your schedule was all booked up, with jail and all.” The barrel pushes further on his head. Wrong choice of words, got it. “But I helped you out with that, didn’t I?” Yes, that is true, but if Buford were to ask why, Marty wouldn’t be able to give him a straight answer whatsoever. He’s still trying to work one out for himself. 

He’s stuck in a century that’s not his own, and the only way back to the twentieth was to wait it out. This bleak outlook was brought on when the Delorean got to about 70 mph right before the end of the tracks that had been built. Marty had to jump out at the last second, which got him caught up in bed rest for a good month or two. His fate didn’t begin to compare to the car though, its final resting place being crushed under the locomotive. 

Choosing to be stuck in the 1800s instead of being driven off a cliff would widely be considered a reasonable choice. Breaking Buford out however, Marty’s still questioning his motives, and whether it was even worth it. 

His train of thought went a little something like this: There was no hope of returning home, Doc said it himself, he didn’t have the resources. He would never see his family again, or Jennifer, which left Doc as his only friend. But he had found happiness with Clara, and they really seemed to be setting up a life for themselves. This plan didn’t have room for Marty, no matter how many times the couple insisted he could stay with them. 

There were always his actual relatives, but Doc’s voice in his head kept reminding him that by hanging around Seamus and Maggie for too long, he may cease to exist all together, (though he did pay Seamus a visit later on to take back a certain gun he had gifted.) So where to turn? He couldn’t see himself settling down, and the lack of modernity in his surroundings was starting to drive him crazy. Adventure seemed worth a try, and being one of Buford’s goons shouldn’t mess up the space time continuum too much.

That’s how he ended up at the county jail, his twelve dollar gun pointed at the poor guard, and a simple bandana over his face. Ah, the simple days without security cameras. Marty had demanded Buford, and Buford only. Even with a gun, he couldn’t handle all four of the gang. Released into his barely adult care, Buford was compliant getting onto Marty’s horse. That is, until they got a fair way away from town. Being a seasoned criminal, and being so close as to sharing a mare, Mad Dog had no trouble getting the gun out of Marty’s hand, subsequently pointing it at the latter’s head. Hence, our hero’s current problem. 

So yes, Marty had gotten him out of jail. But before that, he had also been the cause of Buford getting covered in the contents of a spittoon  _ and  _ a wheelbarrow of manure. He also hasn’t forgotten the furnace door and the headache he had obtained from the blow. Eastwood has got to be pretty damn stupid helping him after all that, and yet he did. That’s worth at least something, Buford reckons. He drops the gun. 

“What exactly was your plan for me,  _ Clint”  _ he mocks the name.

“I was thinking I could be a part of,” he motions his hands, “whatever it is you’ve got going.” He knows, it sounds stupid to his ears too. 

“So in this grand plan of yours, it never crossed your mind to get my men out either?” It wasn’t just knowing he couldn’t take on the four of them, Marty had other reasons too.

“Those guys ditched you the first chance they got. Come on, they were idiots.” Buford had to admit, the kid had a point. That didn’t stop him from drawing the gun a second time though.

“Let’s see how smart you are then.” And with that, he shoots Marty in the chest. He throws the gun to the side, so that if this works out the way he thinks it will, he won’t kick it out of his hands again. Buford moves Eastwood’s tunic aside, not surprised at all to find his bullet lodged in another piece of metal. Marty groans below him.

“You already knew I had that on, you were riding right in front of me earlier.”

“Yeah I know!” It’s a weak attempt to cover up that he indeed, did not know. He offers his hand. “So just you and me?” Marty takes it, hoisting himself up. His body is still shaking from the impact. 

“That was the idea.” Buford gives him a hard clap on the back.

“I’ll give you about a week.” Marty assumes it’s a threat, until he hears the bellowing laugh that follows. “You really picked the worst time to break me out, we was just about to have dinner.” The sun is setting in the distance. “I’ll go hunt us something, you start a fire.” He starts to wander off, but Marty has some objections of his own.

“How do I know you aren’t gonna ditch me.”

“You don’t.” He calls over his shoulder. “But I’m the one with the gun.” Buford parades away with far too much confidence than someone who just got out of jail should have, but Marty thinks there’s something admirable about it. Banishing the thoughts from his mind, he turns his attention to the fire.

It ends up causing him a fair bit of trouble. In the timeline he grew up in, George McFly wasn’t really the camping type. Of course, Marty had been a part of boy scouts, but only for a short period of time. He never graduated to the level where he’d be allowed to deal with fire on his own, so his complete knowledge on the subject came from watching the older boys struggle (and often fail) to do so, even with adult supervision. 

He starts by gathering a few large logs, and sets them up in a teepee like shape. Underneath the structure, Marty puts a stack of kindling. Luckily for him, Buford had left him with his knife. He tried striking it against the biggest rock he can find. The size doesn’t end up being substantial, none of the sparks take.

By the time he even gets to the starting the fire step, it’s already been a good half hour. He’s heard multiple shots in the distance, and unless Buford is as bad at killing animals as he is at killing Marty, he’s bound to be back soon. Being rushed doesn’t help his situation in the slightest, it only succeeds in stressing him out more. What will Mad Dog think if he can’t even light this pathetic pile of wood? Marty doesn’t have to dwell on it too long.

“Damn greenhorns…” Buford speaks behind him. Alright, he deserved that. Buford pushes him out of the way, taking the knife in the very same action. He strikes a stone, and it looks like he’s doing a lot better than Marty, but it doesn’t catch for him either. He puts his hand on the wood, pulling it away almost immediately. “I’m guessing you ain’t from around here.”

“I was born in Hill Valley,” he defends himself. It still feels like a lie, in their current setting. Buford so obviously humphs. 

“Before a few months ago, I never saw you before. And you’re the only man from anywhere in these parts that doesn’t know if the wood ain’t dry, there ain’t gonna be no fire. Don't matter the size.” He throws a squirrel Marty’s way. “I ain’t stupid.”  _ That’s debatable,  _ Marty thinks.

“This was all you could get?” He asks.

“Oh is it not good enough for you? Mail order cowboy is what you are.” Marty is beginning to think he should just shut his mouth, everything he’s saying is pissing Buford off. 

“No, it’s fine. You were just gone for a while after I heard the last gunshot.”

“I was getting you this.” He tosses a gun Marty’s way. “LeMat Revolver, holds nine shots instead of six. Figured you could use it, you’re probably a shit shot.” A chill goes through the air, one that they both shiver within. Buford starts on a working fire. 

“Y’know, the guy that gave me the peacemaker thought I was pretty good. In fact, he only gave it to me ‘cause he thought I could kill you with it.”

“And here I am, still breathing.”

“That you are.” Though Marty believes he could’ve killed Buford, if that’s what his intention was. 

“God forbid I try to give you the better pistol. If you want the colt back so badly you can have it.” He sulks away from the fire he started, the flames mirroring his mood. Marty puts his hand on Buford’s wrist, as somewhat of an apology, but he jerks away, and a spark pops with him. 

“Sorry, I shoulda just thanked you.” He pulls his fingers away, in the fashion of someone who had just touched something hot. 

“Whatever.” Buford grunts, grabbing the squirrel from the ground, taking no time to skin it. 

“You’re gonna have to teach me how to do that.” Buford looks up, annoyed as all hell.

“Jesus kid, is there anything you  _ can  _ do?” Marty didn’t think they’d be buddy-buddy, but jeez, he’s trying here. He glances around, noticing a lack of sticks.

“I could get more wood.” Buford laughs, Marty thinks he’s in the clear.  _ Phew. _

“Make it dry this time.”

“Got it.” He mock salutes him. 

The rest of the night goes by in relative silence, only broken whenever Buford gives him an order, or when Marty thanks him for the food, (squirrel is surprisingly better than he thought it would be.) They go to sleep soon after, or rather Mad Dog passes out as soon as he hits the hard ground, and Marty has to listen to his snoring for a good few hours before being able to drift off. 

He still dreams of his old life, nothing before or after the 1970s to the 80s. They usually consist of his siblings and parents, or occasionally a friend from school. Every so often Jennifer makes an appearance, not tonight though. Sometimes Marty wonders if his dreams will shift to fantasies from the time period he’s stuck in, or if they’ll linger in the timeline where they where meant to be. He doesn’t want to forget, but every day being gone, he feels himself slipping away from that life. 

Buford wakes him in the morning with a kick to the stomach. Figures. Breakfast is already cooking over a new fire, and Marty would make a joke about him being a perfect little housewife if he didn’t think Mad Dog would shoot him for saying such a thing. His hand grazes his new gun. He realizes he never asked Buford where he got it from, so he does just that. 

“There was a house about a mile from here. They seemed pretty happy to give it to me as payment for leaving them alone.”

“A mile?! Jesus that’s close to here. You don’t think they’d come back for us, bring any friends?”

“Heh, no.” Seeming awfully sure of himself, he looks Marty straight in the eye. “No one is coming after me.” And even though he’s on his side, that look makes him feel all sorts of panic in his stomach. 

Marty looks back to that night and following morning fondly, and with a bit of confusion at times. Buford could’ve killed him, and considering all he’s learned about his personality in the time since, he doesn’t understand how he’s still above snakes. There must’ve been something in the air that day. 

No matter, it all worked out. He likes to remind himself of that. Their travels have been anything but consistent since then. Every time he thinks the cowboy games are getting repetitive, a bullet grazes his neck, leaving behind a lifetime scar. That’s happened two times now, and they remind Marty that these aren’t games at all. However unordinary, it’s all real.

Early on, when his face doesn’t decorate posters along with Mad Dog’s, Marty suggests trying another one of Eastwood’s tricks. Buford doesn’t seem too keen on having a rope around his neck, but warms up to the idea when he’s reminded of the $1000 bounty. Shooting the noose seconds before they let the horse beneath him go won’t be the easiest task, but Marty’s sure he can manage.

So there he is, a short distance away, sitting in a barn with the compensation for Buford resting in his pocket, in cash no less. His rifle is trained at the rope, as the priest is finishing his speech. He tells God to bless his soul, as if. 

Marty can’t tell if it’s clarity or a heat flash, but for a singular moment he thinks about taking the money and leaving Buford to hang. This isn’t a movie and Mad Dog isn’t Tuco. It’s very unlikely that he’ll volunteer to do this again. The Eastwood name isn’t too associated with the criminal about to die, and he wouldn’t have too much trouble getting away scot free. No one recognized him when he had turned in Buford, or perhaps they did, but hadn’t cared. 

The thing that changes his mind isn’t the idea that he'll lose the venturesome lifestyle the two had become accustomed to, or that he’ll struggle to get as much money without Buford. Neither of those are true, at some instances Marty might even be better without him. It isn’t even the fact that Mad Dog is on that horse right now, trusting him with his life. In that last second, he shoots the rope because he realizes that if their situations were reversed, he would trust Buford to cut him down, though he chalks it up to one of the other three things right after. 

Unlike his namesake action star, he doesn’t shoot the hats off those surprised below. When he catches up to Buford later, he’ll claim he did, but he’s only reciting the story. In reality, he had been dazed, and in fact almost caught for staying in the barn too long. But Mad Dog had enjoyed the tale of him scaring all the townsfolk with the spaghetti western style tricks, so Marty figured there was no harm in it. 

Although he was right in Buford never wanting to repeat the trick again, he still wants to celebrate their accomplishment and burn through a fair bit of the bounty. Marty convinces him to hold off a few days, they are on the run after all, but not wanting to be a killjoy, he eventually gives in. Two nights later they’re at a dodgy inn-saloon combo, quite a few towns over from the last, per Marty’s request. 

The place is drowning in prostitutes, so much so that when Buford reaches his hand out to Marty, he knows he’s asking for money. He handles all their finances now. His time in high school math already put him way above his predecessors, and Buford has enough confidence in him at this point to know he won’t run off. 

Marty makes his way over to the bartender, who greets him with a smile, a rare occasion these days. If anyone recognizes the two of them, they don’t say so. Even if they had, news of their stunt likely hadn’t reached this place. Every story travels slow, and is butchered by whoever carries it.

“Two shots of whiskey.” he orders for them. The bartender glances over towards the staircase, and Marty follows his gaze. Buford is going up, a girl on each arm. Turning back, he knows he can’t be annoyed. That’s  _ his _ way of celebrating, alcohol just so happens to be his own. The bartender raises his eyebrows. “Two is still good.” He responds, downing them both in one go.

Marty will admit, he is very much a lightweight. If he ever drank back home, it was at parties with watered down, crap beer. Nothing ever got in his system that was even close to the strength of what he drank regularly now, mostly because it wasn’t available to him. Regardless of the countless months he has now spent in and out of bars, he still can’t seem to handle his alcohol. 

That’s probably why he’s currently spilling his guts to anyone who’ll listen, mostly the bartender, whose name he learns is Boone. It takes almost no time at all for Marty to reveal their identities to the man, but he doesn’t seem phased by them, and so the rest follows. After he hears the story of their latest caper, he even offers a round on the house.

“I don’t suppose my friend could take that in the form of a woman?” It’s a joke, but they’ll be lucky if they leave with less than a hundred dollar dent out of their earnings. Marty knows they could probably get away with just leaving, but he feels bad wasting the ladies time. It’s just not right robbing them. 

“You’d have to take that up with their head mistress Laura, but I doubt she’d cave for just a story.” Marty supposes he shouldn’t fret as much as he does, but worrying about money is a trait he had adopted from his parents, and one that he hasn’t really let go. He hopes one day he’ll feel easy knowing if they ever need cash, they can steal it. 

Boone has to serve another customer, but Marty takes notice of Buford coming back downstairs, and prays that he’ll stay so he doesn’t have to drink alone. He does come his way, but his intentions don’t seem to be for staying. 

“Having fun?” Marty asks, nodding to the girls looking their way. Every so often they whisper among themselves, but they seem happy enough. Buford smiles. 

“Yeah, and you should be too. I have this fine girl upstairs. Her name’s Lucille, and I told her all about you.” When Marty doesn’t seem to share his enthusiasm, he remarks, “We’ve been working together a little under a year now, and I never seen you go off with a woman.” Marty just shrugs, turning back to his drink. Buford thinks on it for a moment, before coming to a not so stunning and probably obvious conclusion.

“You don’t like being the one doing the fucking!” Marty is burning up, and he knows he likely looks redder than however warm he’s managing to get. 

“Quiet down.” He mutters. He can’t even deny it, because Buford is partially right. He could always use the Jennifer excuse, but that lost its truthfulness a long time ago. Marty misses her, but it’s only like he misses everyone else from home. He still likes women, he knows he’s not completely gay.

It’s not his sexuality, whatever that is, that’s stopping him from enjoying the night. It’s not Jennifer, but it is a certain someone. Marty  _ definitely  _ can’t tell Buford that.

“Ain’t nothing to be ashamed of,” He tells him, still too loud for Marty’s liking. “Next time we’ll find some whores more accustomed to your liking.”

“Okay big guy,” reaching for anything to distract Buford, his eyes return to the girls. “I think they’re waiting for you.”

“That they are my friend.” Buford claps him on the back. “That they are.” He leaves, and Marty lets out a breath. He goes straight to Boone, asking to pay for his room, the whole situation having sobered him up. 

No one had ever figured that out about him back home, not even the doc. Mad Dog had even been laughing about it, but the fact that his secret was so casually out in the open, it freaked Marty out a little. He hadn’t heard the term homosexual since coming back here, but he knew the practice wasn’t uncommon. But men could be fucking men in the streets, and Marty still doesn’t know if he’d be okay thinking about himself like that. It had been a long night, and he was ready to just sleep. 

Or so he thought, until he actually laid down in the bed so graciously provided to him. He wants to blame it on the fact that the beds from this time period aren’t that great, but going weeks at a time without anything other than the ground to sleep on, he knows that can’t be an excuse. No, it’s just his thoughts. 

He hasn’t slept at all when the door opens in the middle of the night. He had explicitly told Buford not to send anyone, which is making him all the more pissed off. But sent someone, he had not. Marty’s about to tell some nonexistent girl to kindly leave him the hell alone, when Buford forcefully turns him around, crashing their lips together. The night becomes something different all together. 

Buford is exactly how Marty imagined he’d be in bed. He’s strong, pretty rough, but altogether not forceful. Somehow better than the sex itself, was the easiness of everything, and Marty’s own relief. Mad Dog wasn’t judging him. Hell, look at their situation. When it came down to it, there wasn’t even room for unrest afterward. Buford passed out almost immediately, and head on his shoulder, Marty could finally sleep to the tune of his heartbeat. 

He wakes the next morning, slightly disappointed that Buford wasn’t still there next to him. Then again, the cowboy had always been more of an early bird than Marty could ever hope to be. There are signs of him around the room. Most notably is his jacket on a distant chair, but the window and door are both slightly ajar. Knowing him, he could’ve gone out of either. 

Exiting his room, Marty feels like everyone is staring at him. He knows it's ridiculous, whenever he looks at any of them they aren’t giving him a single glance. Paranoia is only replaced with worry when he can’t find Buford. He asks around the bar, but his description can really fit a number of people. If he said the name ‘Mad Dog Tannen’ he may have gotten better results, but the wrong people might have overheard. It wasn’t worth the risk. 

A number of men give him a number of leads, so Marty decides to take none of their suggestions and check the stables. At the very least he can check how their horses are doing. That was the plan, until he went to their stalls, and found them completely empty, save for a few stray bales of hay.

Marty’s first thought, (and hope) is that he was wrong. But after checking every other section of the barn more than once, he has to consider other unfortunate possibilities. Buford wouldn’t have stranded him there, right? No matter how casually he had played it off, maybe last night was a big deal to him. So much so that he felt the need to completely cut ties with Marty, and steal his horse too. He’s settled on that as his most likely story, but as he’s leaving the stables, Buford is making his way back, riding one horse and leading the other. God, he needs to stop being so dramatic. 

If Marty is as stiff as a board, Buford is a goddamn ragdoll. He casually hops off his horse, leading the two back into their stalls. He beckons Marty inside, who chooses to stay in the doorway. He feels he doesn’t have the right to be in awe, as he shouldn’t have even suspected something was wrong. Something is off, and it didn’t just spawn from Buford’s absence. 

“I was having them fitted for new saddles, figured we could treat ourselves.” He explains. Marty still doesn’t make an attempt to move. “Just  _ get in here. _ ” As soon as he’s an arms length away, Marty is pushed up against a post. Buford kisses him, and he doesn’t expect anything after. 

It’s nothing more, and right then and there, it becomes so much more simple. Any complications that previously existed are shattered, swept up, and put nicely in the trash. Buford isn’t using him, and he isn’t using Buford. It’s straightforward, and Marty feels free. 

He’s a natural worrier, that he can admit. He doesn’t want to give all the credit to that day, but Marty definitely had a shift in perspective. His back muscles would call him a traitor, but he’s starting to not mind those nights in fields and forests so much. There’s something to be said about the privacy of it, with the stars as their only witnesses. Maybe it was all the pollution in the eighties, but there sure seems to be a lot more of them.

He’s finally living. It’s not just making the best of a bad situation, or trying to have fun. He knows his life is going to be shorter now. He doesn’t know if it’ll be the danger or the lack of modern medicine that will take him out, but he’s not living nearly as long as he grew up expecting too. However he has someone now, and maybe that makes this whole mess worth it. Under those stars, Marty feels the most basic serenity. Is it too much to call this nirvana?

And when it comes down to it, the truly important stuff hasn’t changed. They eat when they want to eat, they sleep when they want to sleep. When they need to steal, they do just that. The intimacy is a fine addition though, Marty doesn’t take it for granted. 

The more their relationship progresses, the more Marty wants to tell Buford the truth about his beginnings. But as time goes on, it becomes harder to even think about owning up. There’s so many things that could go wrong. In the end, all it takes is a Tuesday morning, a compliment, and Buford calling him Clint. It should be special, he usually just refers to him as Eastwood. He was even trying to be sweet, believe it or not. In Marty’s mind, without it being his real name, it just falls flat.

“If I tell you something, will you promise to just hear me out?”

“Sure..” Buford looks suspicious already, Marty doubts he’s going to be believed at all now.

“What would you say if I told you I wasn’t from around here?” Better to start with something he had already been assuming for years. “That I came from the year 1985, and my real name is Marty.” He doesn’t say his last, that’s a whole other can of worms that he certainly doesn’t want to open right now. He goes on to explain his entire situation, in the simplest terms possible, ending with him jumping out of the Delorean. Buford patiently listens the whole time, but only until the second he finishes.

“I’m not that goddamn stupid to believe that load of horse shit.” He rides ahead, not out of sight of Marty, but far enough. He doesn’t try to catch up, better to let him not get any more angry. He’s completely aware how crazy it sounds, how easy it would be for Buford to think he’s getting made fun of. 

A few hours go by, it’s about noon when he rears his horse to the side of the road and takes a break. Marty takes the opportunity to ride up, but not wanting to just forget the subject, he starts right in. Poor choice.

“You spent most of your time in Hill Valley, and you never saw me there. That doesn’t make sense.” Buford rolls his eyes.

“How long are you gonna keep this up for?” The answer really is, as long as it takes. He didn’t just risk this relationship for it to all go down the drain.

“I know you killed twelve men before they stopped counting because you got to a newspaper editor who printed a bad story about you.”

“Anyone coulda found that out.”

“What’s it gonna take for you to believe me?” Normally, Marty would expect Buford’s trust. But with something as ridiculous as this, it’s not fair to anticipate his unwavering belief. Buford thinks on it for a few seconds, before giving a one word reply.

“Proof.” Well that’s not happening any time soon. Even if by some miracle, the pieces of the Delorean weren’t escorted from their crash sight or completely under the train, there’s no way a few pieces of metal would prove anything to Buford. They aren’t even worth bringing up. They ride in silence, and in all that time, Marty can’t think of a single way to show him.

He’s not done talking about this, but he gives him more space by waiting till nightfall. With their fire still in its early stages, he figures it’s as good a time as any. He has a sort of speech, after all the time he’s had to prepare. 

“We’ve been partners for a while now, I’d like to think we’ve established some level of trust. I know what I’m asking you to-” He’s cut off.

“Whatever, I believe you.” Buford sounds curt, unlike his usual nonchalant tone.

“Oh.” That was all he wanted really. Despite that, there still seems to be some sort of rift between them. He should be relieved, but Marty just feels sick. Though if he pushes anymore, he only fears he could make it worse. 

“Could you pass some water?” He asks, desperately wanting to change the subject. Hoping for things to go back to normal was apparently too much to ask. Buford picks up his canteen, looks Marty dead in the eye, and drinks near the entire thing. He does end up passing it, but only when he’s certain there’s got to be less than a drop left. He almost resigns to accept that Buford is going to stay mad, but he can’t help the voice inside his head that is yelling at him to say anything to make it better. “If I said I lied would we be okay?”   


“Dammit stop being so dramatic, I said I believe you.” His sentence trails off like he wants to say more, so Marty waits for him. “My problem is that for three years you’ve been lyin to me.” Such a short sentiment, but in Buford’s case, it’s feelings gold.

It’s actually been closer to four years now, but it wouldn’t really help Marty’s case to bring that up. He’s tried proof, he’s tried speeches. At this point, he just wants to speak from the heart.

“That was really shit of me,” he starts, “and I don’t know how to make that better, other than to promise I won’t ever lie to you again. Because I love you Buford, and you’re not getting rid of me.” It’s a bit cliche, honestly a lot, but if he was going to be so pouty, sappy is what he’s gonna get. It’s the first time either of them has said  _ it.  _ Four years is a long time, but stuff like that just isn’t them. Leaving Marty’s mouth now though, it feels right. 

The air is thick and Buford is just staring at him. Marty is sweating bullets waiting for any kind of response. Buford cracks a smile, and the balloon in his chest deflates with overwhelming relief.

“Fuckin sissy.”

“Oh shut up.” Marty wants to sound annoyed, but his face is giving it away. 

“So you’re saying you coulda picked any name for yourself here, and you chose Clint Eastwood?’

“He’s this famous actor.” He explains to him, but of course that starts a whole discussion on what movies even are. Marty has a feeling he’s going to be describing a lot of future experiences to him from now on, but in that moment, he doesn’t really mind.

“Well I can understand not wanting to be called Marty.” Buford teases. “Wait a minute, what’s your family name?” He so wants to say something like Parker, or maybe Baines, but he did make a promise, and so he concedes.

“It’s McFly..” Buford’s jaw drops.

“You mean like?”

“Yeah, like Seamus.”   


“Shit dude, I knew you two looked similar.” That is true, how could Marty forget their first interaction? It’s funny to think that he had just admitted love to someone who upon their first meeting, had him hanging at the end of a rope. Weird how life works out like that.

Buford still calls him Eastwood, McFly sounding too strange. Marty can admit, coming out of Mad Dog’s mouth, all he can picture are his relatives. But whenever things get personal, Buford now opts for ‘Marty.’ 

And just like that, the pair enters a new era. Marty had been hoping for normalcy after revealing his past, (future?) and although the newness of the truth is overwhelming at the start, it’s just nice to finally breathe for once. He can talk without having to watch himself. 

This truth also comes with a responsibility to fix any disruptions in a timeline he probably caused. Upon asking Buford a few months back if he had any kids, and getting the response ‘Not that I’m aware of,’ Marty knew he had to do something in that direction. He’s not necessarily a fan of any Tannen born in the 20th century, but without Biff his parents may have never gotten together, and getting Buford to have a baby or two seems a better plan than just hoping he doesn’t disappear. 

When he explains the situation to him though, Buford doesn’t seem all too enthusiastic, claiming that he hates kids.

“Would you rather you roll over one day to see me evaporating into thin air?” Marty’s being a bit dramatic, he’d probably only disappear when the chances of Buford having children are completely eliminated, ie him probably dying.

“That’d really happen?” He asks. There’s not much harm in letting him believe that though. He thinks on it for only a few minutes. “Fine.”   


“You don’t have to give me an answer right now.” Marty assures him. He knows what he’s asking for is a lot. He’d almost feel selfish if this wasn’t meant to happen without his existence here. 

“Nah.” Buford waves it off. “Can’t have you aspirating all over the place.” Marty would correct him if he wasn’t so afraid he’d change his mind. 

Treating it as a touchy subject wasn’t necessary though, Buford was dead set. They turned around the next day, towards the direction of a woman he said they could trust with this. It was apparently a long ride, Marty took it upon himself to nag him for as many answers as he could squeeze out of him. After the first day, he learned her name, (Rosie). The result of the second was Buford’s relationship to her. 

“You have a wife?!”   


“You’re not allowed to get mad after how long you pushed me.”

“I’m not mad,” and it’s true, Marty isn’t. “I’m just surprised is all.” He pauses. “We’ve been together so long, you didn’t think I should know that?” 

“We don’t talk anymore. Her family said she needed a husband so she could get her land, I was around.”

“How gentlemanly.” Marty remarks, hoping to get a rise out of him. “I hope when they put you down in the history books, they’ll say you were kind.” He succeeds in making Buford mad, when he pulls out his gun and shoots the ground. Marty’s current horse gets spooked easier than would be preferable. Buford leaves him in his dust while he’s dealing with the rearing animal. The toxic masculinity that man has suppressed, Marty swears to God. And he thought it was bad in the eighties. 

Marty doesn’t know how long it takes to get there, until nine days in, when they reach a small farm a good bit north of the general area they usually stay in. Rosie spots them when they’ve barely gotten through the gates. 

“Buford!” She shouts, waving from her porch, “Why din’t you write?” As they approach further Marty gets a clearer view of her. She’s a tall woman, probably taller than Buford, which he gets a kick out of. Her accent is strong, and she has long brown hair, curling down her back. Or it could be red, Marty can’t tell in the light. 

“Woulda taken longer for a letter to get here than I did.” Buford mumbles. Her arms are outstretched for a hug, which he completely ignores as he gets off his horse. She rolls her eyes, but invites them in for tea. When asked where ‘the boys’ are, Buford instead introduces her to Marty, to whom she gives a warm welcome. He can only assume Rosie meant the gang he had seen Buford associated with before, but there’s no way of telling really. When he asks where an ‘Abigale’ is, Buford is informed that her mother had gotten sick and she was taking care of her. Marty thinks it’s so strange to see him involved in a life where people didn’t just know him for robbing or terrorizing them.

When the air cools and the sky darkens, they retire to the fireplace for cigarettes. Marty didn’t think he’d see someone chain smoke for longer than Buford, apparently Rosie’s lungs have him beat. But then the dreaded question has to be brought up, which leaves Marty on the edge of his seat.

“You and Abigale ever think about bringing kids here?” Buford asks. You’d have to know him to notice, but he’s nervous.

“She def’nitely has, I’m not so sure though. With the way people talk, I’m not sure the orphanage would come near here.” Looking at the two of their faces, it dawns on her. “Why, you lookin to pass down yer family name?”

“Somethin’ like that.” he mutters.

“Alright,” she tells them, “It’s not like I’m gettin’ any younger.” Marty is positive she can’t be older than 32, 33, but he supposes that with such short life spans these days, everything has to be done earlier. Maybe that has something to do with the two of their hasty decisions. 

“You sure you don’t want to consult with Abigale on this?” Buford implores, to which she can only laugh.

“If anyone’s puttin’ up a fight on the children front, it’s me. She’ll be happy if she comes home to see me all knocked up. God only knows this place could use some brightness.”

And so they do it that night. Rosie invites Marty in with them, apparently having judged their relationship correctly. He wonders if Buford has brought other guys ‘home’ before. He believes this is the first time Buford has been with a woman in a while, at least since Marty asked him to stop sleeping with prostitutes. It wasn’t exclusivity or jealousy that was bothering him. He had just remembered an old lesson from high school. He can’t recall if it was brought up during history or sex ed, but he knows some teacher talked about the rampant STDs in the wild west. It stuck with him. It’s a small miracle Buford hadn’t caught anything noticeable yet. 

Regardless, that night, a baby was conceived. Or so the three hoped, they had to wait a few weeks before they knew for sure. But after a month goes by, Rosie reassures them it’s a done deal, and they take their leave. Marty makes sure to remember the date they have to be back by, as Buford sure as hell won’t remember himself.

If it was up to Marty, they would’ve stayed the entire time. Buford was getting antsy though, he’s not the settling type. He tries talking to Rosie the night before they leave. He doesn’t want her to take it personally, but of course she’s known Buford longer and understands. She even dispels some of his own fears, stating that they’ve hired an extra farmhand for the situation and that Abigale should be getting back any day now. 

That helps, and they go off. To Buford’s despair, their life is a little less fun. The heists are few and far between, Marty is acting extra careful. Whatever they do manage to steal, a sizable cut gets mailed back to Rosie. He wishes they could get updates, missing the days of phone calls and having a permanent address. 

Since Marty doesn’t want them robbing places, their nights are rough in other ways. Most of the time Buford sleeps in whatever bar they wandered into. But it also gave the two a chance to relax, and for Marty to see a more tame side of the Wild West, if that even existed. 

Buford taught him how to play Faro, where Marty learns that he either sucks at cards or at betting in general. He sticks to poker after losing one too many rounds. There were a lot of games he hadn’t ever heard of, that Buford really cleans up in. Marty almost wants to suggest trading their lives for one of gamblers, if it wasn’t so mundane. Maybe for their retirement. (The Biff that opened the Pleasure Paradise would’ve made his great-grandpa proud, if him and Doc hadn’t destroyed him that is.)

Although Buford is still intimidating, it was nice to not have fear follow them from new town to new town. When they go into shops, it was more common to be greeted with a smile than a grimace, something Marty sorely missed. 

He still lets Buford rob the occasional bank or two, but not nearly as many as they would’ve been without the existence of his soon to be child. To Marty, the eight or so months are the longest of his life, longer than the time he was put up in a bed after jumping out of the time machine. With how calm things have gotten, he’d think Buford would’ve felt the same. He later remarks though, that they were the quickest of his life. Not because of the anticipation or anything along those lines, he just had a good time. Marty would tease him for going soft, but the blame only falls on his shoulders, to which he can’t argue. He never knew he could be so persuasive. 

No matter how they were felt, the months do go by, and before Buford knows it, it’s time to head back. He has too much pride to admit that he had lost track of the time. The ride seems shorter this time. Marty is in good spirits, which only puts him in them as well.

As they approach the porch the second time around, a blonde woman sits alone. Marty assumes it’s Abigale. Being far away and noticing her lack of company, a million scenarios rush through his mind, and they’re all bad. They go away slightly when he sees her happy expression. She stands from her chair as they dismount. 

“You must be Marty.” He tips his hat to her, Buford scoffs. 

“Abigale?” She does a mock curtsy. For lack of a better time, and because Marty looks like he’s about to explode, she tells them.

“It’s a boy!” 

“Oh thank god.” Buford remarks behind him. Marty doesn’t have time to be annoyed at the statement though, already up the steps and hugging the woman he barely knows. She leads them inside, Rosie is cooing over a cradle. 

“We’re so sorry we missed it.” She puts a finger up to her lips, but beckons them over. The boy slowly opens his eyes, clearly having heard them enter. He doesn’t seem to mind though, or at the very least he’s not crying about it. “What’s his name?” 

“We were waiting fer y’all to get here for that bit.” She picks him up to her chest, keeping him steady until she offers him to Buford. As he accepts, only then does Marty look at him. The smiles he’s so clearly trying to hide is tugging at his lips. 

“How about Marty?” Rosie laughs. 

“I am  _ not  _ naming my baby after yer gay lover.” Marty doesn’t take offense to it, too immersed in the kid's face. He never understood them having their parents’ eyes until now. He knows Buford’s too well to not notice them staring back at him. 

“What was your father’s name?” Abigale asks Buford, to which he and Rosie scoff. Something clearly there, she moves onto Marty. “How about yours?”

“George.” He assumes he’ll be written off. Though his dad and Biff’s history isn’t relevant in this part of history, somehow Marty feels it’ll transcend time. That is, until Rosie says she likes it and Buford agrees with her. 

A Tannen named after a McFly that doesn’t even exist yet, Marty couldn’t find it more fitting. 

**Author's Note:**

> kudos and comments are much appreciated, they make my day!


End file.
